Dreamer
by Zeda
Summary: An internal monologue by Chipp, taking place at some point in his childhood as a drug addict. (somewhat creepy Chipp POV; internal monologue sequence)


( -...- = italics)  
  
Title: Dreamer  
  
Author: Zeda (BLK)  
  
Started: February 13th, 2002 Ended: March 29th, 2002  
  
Series: Guilty Gear  
  
Rating: R  
  
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of unsavory stuff, brutally abstract  
  
druggie thought processes, somewhat depressing . . .  
  
Summary: A vignette of Chipp's thoughts at some point in early youth  
  
Disclaimer: Guilty Gear and the Guilty Gear Series do not belong to  
  
me. Basically I did this story at first just as an assignment for  
  
Creative Writing class and then branched on it from there . . .  
  
Author's Note: I love Chipp . . . And Anji x Chipp . . . daah...  
  
*finished in the AM of the 30th, actually.*  
  
Comments go to Zeda at BKoe101725@a...  
  
MY SITE:   
  
*  
  
I could feel myself cracking beneath the weight of her screams.  
  
I don't think I ever really was one of those trademark 'good kids' . . . I was a solid C student in school -mostly because I didn't feel the need to try hard enough to make A's. I was certainly intelligent enough, but even the smartest of kids can wan when they simply don't care anymore- and I didn't have even a single real friend to my name.  
  
'Friends' . . . So superficial. They liked me because I knew how to party, and I only knew how to party because it afforded me a great escape from my brain and my world. The kids that have to come home to the sounds of screaming and sobbing and breaking echoing through their house . . . -Those- are the kids that know how to party, 'cause their world's falling down and they'd rather not think about it.  
  
That's the way I am, curled-up with my back pressed to the safety of the corner in my tiny, dark cacoon of a room . . . Even as I marinate in the reverberation of Mother's sobs I try to immerse my brain in the throb of something else; of an endless frantic dance in some dank section of the slums. Some pulsating world where I can drift out of my mind and float in a section between heaven and hell, reserved for the souls that humanity forgot.  
  
The next scream pierces through my little sub-world as keenly as a syringe through pliant young flesh and I coil just a bit tighter into myself, trying to make the vibrations of sound ricochet off of my shrinking form. I hate this place, this world, these throbbing veins tracing delicate patterns through my pale young arms . . .  
  
I hate those pale purple lines, even as they thrill in the descent of the -real- syringe rather than the proverbial one; even as they open-up and gladly drink-down the blessed toxic fluids.  
  
That's what the game is all about . . . Escaping. Running and hiding from your mind and the screams and the shouting and the smashing of another vase and the spilling of another mouthful of blood. All about forgetting your name and your face and releasing into that blessed Purgatory once more. I don't feel bad that Mother won't come with me to my dreamer's world . . . She's made it quite clear to me that she would rather suffer in His grip than reach that lukewarm space away and between with Me.  
  
My eyes roll back in the sluggish surge of the longed-for intoxication, the bite of the chemicals seeping into my brain. The nurturing sting that crops up and asks for nothing, only takes away the pain and the life and the thoughts and gives me the numbing that I need.  
  
-Need-.  
  
I need this numbing to fill my senses and cloud-out the pain of Mother's betrayal. Mother gave up on me, and It wasn't very long before I gave up on myself. Nothing awaits me in this bare, cold Reality except the sharp jolt of a slap across the face or the pain of inexplicable loneliness that wells-up in my chest and threatens to consume me. I've felt this needling pain ever since the beginning of time, when Mother forsook all else in His name. Forgot me, her own pale-haired son, and moved us away from our comfortable home on the outskirts of the city to this run-out, tiny little hell hole in the rotting heart of it. (Cities have diseased hearts, you know)  
  
I got into the dreamscape rather soon afterwards. Sleep was the greatest release it seemed I could attain . . . And I cherished every moment of it that I could. Sleeping pills brought me gently into the arms of my dream world, my Purgatory, my harmonious place between heaven and hell . . .  
  
Sleeping pills became my loving mother, my harmless and amiable companion . . . As I got older, though, stronger things floated into my appetite, sedatives that could throw a horse into My World with the flick of a single bony and atrophied wrist. Stronger kinds of sleeping pills that threw you hard into 'sleep' and left you there for days, not like the warm arms of my innocent white sleeping pills. Like a boyfriend who strays away from his faithful lover, breaking up and getting lost in bad relationships . . . I drifted slowly away. Into my synthetic dream world wrought by syringes and spoons and cords and lighters.  
  
Painkillers were fun too; a means to numb me and seal me into a slow dreamlike stare up at my pale and ugly ceiling, my white hair nestled around the egg of my head as it lay against the pillow, threatening to crack and ooze creamy yolk and egg white out onto my bed sheets. Maybe my hair was always white . . . Or maybe my beloved dream world had dyed it this way.  
  
Every now and then my dream-starter toxins would betray me, though . . . Toss me into a cold, sharp city of daggers and throbbing, bloody hearts that made me scream a silent scream that united with the others shivering in my head. Took me -not- into my glorious between-world but down, down into the place where my body lies and further, scalding me with painful images and sparks behind my eyes that haunt me even when I awaken.  
  
I hate Nightmares . . . Demons that haunt me and remind me of my horrible, cold Reality. Even worse was when the drugs worked -too- well and refused to allow me to wake from the clutches of these wraiths, pinning me down into a Night Terror: the kind of all-ravaging nightmares that grip you until you have the luxury of seeing your own death. Hold you down and make you wallow in the deepest bowels of hell until, just perhaps, they decide to release you again. My darling sleeping pills never betrayed me like that . . . Only the sludge I pumped into me to slow the flow of my crimson blood would even -consider- bestowing upon me this cruel punishment.  
  
And here I am, tripping through my Purgatory again; drifting in that between space on the artificial wings of some blessed chemical that will keep me aloft for another day or so . . . My world is slow and metered, not a single perversion in the soft silver strands of my thoughts. They are tied so eloquently, these palest silver threads, flowing in shimmering metallic rivers through a molasses-slow world. This is when I truly -live- . . . When I can feel the vibrations as they swirl like countless jumbled liquids in my stew pot skull. I remember once I went a whole day without any little sedative or pain killer -not even a gentle sleeping pill- and I swear that I felt like I was a quivering shot of lightning in a bottle.  
  
I had lost my stash of sweet sleeping pills during a school-wide field trip (a gentle drug for a day that was a release in itself), and I was gone from home for the whole, long as a never-ending leash day. My body and brain had adjusted to a normal pace in a slow-moving form of reality, swirling in a place between the dead and the living, swathed in chemical dreams. I had become used to my true place, my loving far-away world . . . And without even a mild sedative my energy piled-up without regulation. I felt like I could blaze a burning path straight through the sun and back; race the last gunshot of light to the ends of the universe and beat it before it ricocheted back to the God-forsaken bloody sphere where my body lies like an anchor in Reality.  
  
My `friends' thought there was something seriously wrong with me, and the moment I got home I took a hit of my strongest drug and slept for three days.  
  
God help those who might know me, if I should ever be saved from my Reality by the arms of something other than my dream world, something beyond my synthetic dream world of syringes and spoons, cords and lighters . . .  
  
I know full well that that'll never happen. There's nobody who's interested in the child rotting in the back room of this pit in the slums. Nobody that will ever come floating into my room one day to scoop me up in their arms and carry me away to safety . . .  
  
But I can still think of it. I have all the dreamtime in the world to think any number of useless things . . . Time to think with the screaming clouded-out and the sleep wrapped tight and warm around my brain. Warm like Mother's arms felt once, before they became callous and bruised and scabbed. In Here I can think . . . I can dream . . .  
  
. . .  
  
I know the house is silent now, and that it's not just the stinging tenderness blurring the shivers as they make my ugly white ceiling dance in rainbows of soft, smoothe color (like ice cream). I know that somewhere beyond the greasy, black cocoon of my bedroom someone has either fallen wounded and `dreaming', or is busy lying in a pool of congealing crimson, glass-eyes gazing into nothing of importance; into No Dream. Probably the former, and I dread the anxious wonder if it's the latter.  
  
Even in a soft, black drift in hot and dreamy Purgatory I can feel a little wonder. What if He has fallen this time? Probably not . . . What if Mother has paid the final price for her Sins . . .? Maybe. If this is true . . . then I huddle closer into a tight ball, glazed and unfocused and helplessly pinked eyes focusing, through the magic of hallucination, on the harsh dark pillar of the door.  
  
No sound to permeate the static in the grey lump of my brain . . . No. No sound . . . Just the silence hanging thick and moist in the molecules in the air.  
  
Time doesn't exist in dreams. That's probably why I have so much of it . . . The sharp essence of a fresh drug trudging through the purplish tubes in my wrists as I gaze long and hard upon them (just a little slit, a careless little razor blade-). No sound, no attention span, no acknowledgment of the eerie prolonged silence. It increases the static in my head, this Silence . . .  
  
The quiet is so much more terrifying, `cause when Mother's down and stilled upon the ratted and stained old carpet He may come for me.  
  
He may come for me . . .  
  
. . .But in the end only the Dreams came.  
  
-Ende- 


End file.
